


As Horde Prime Wishes

by Clockwork_Roses



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Blasphemy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Just Cult Leader Things, M/M, Mind Control, Porn with Implied/Referenced Character Development, Rape/Non-con Elements, Xeno, is there a tag for sticking fingers down someone's throat as a sexual act?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28517253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clockwork_Roses/pseuds/Clockwork_Roses
Summary: A clone is summoned to do a high honor for His Reverence.This had a working title of "Horde Prime Fucks His Clones" so... that about sums it up.  Please check tags!
Relationships: Hordak/Horde Prime (She-Ra), Horde Prime/Horde Prime Clones (She-Ra)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	As Horde Prime Wishes

_You have been selected for a High Honor._

The clone starts slightly, eyes widening. It is an honor. Of course it is. Around him, the hivemind ripples with assent.

_an honor_

He is guided, then, along the corridors to his destination, a path laid out before him in a light superimposed upon his vision. But he is left to walk it himself, conscious of every step.

_an honor_

On his way, he passes other clones, like himself. They do not offer him any acknowledgement, nor does he expect it from them. Each has their own assigned task, as he has his.

The route he follows leads him to a door, less grand perhaps than that of the ceremonial chambers but marked more significantly than the countless others he has passed on his way here. This door, he knows, leads to Horde Prime’s personal rooms, insofar as the entire ship does not constitute his personal rooms, which is not especially far.

The clone steps up to the door and it glides open, noiselessly. The room beyond is smaller than many aboard the ship-- one might even say, intimate-- but furnished as impressively as all those most favored by Lord Prime. Relics and trophies of conquered worlds, curiosities liberated from all corners of the universe, are mounted on the smooth white walls and displayed upon pillars alongside the room’s minimal furnishings. Chief among these are a screen of vertical slats separating the door through which the clone has just arrived from the rest of the room, and a wide, abstractly angular seat on which Horde Prime lounges.

The clone bows in deference.

“Come here, little brother.” The Prime smiles benevolently.

The clone obeys skirting around the screen to stand before his leader. Behind him, the door slides shut. His connection to the hivemind is… muted, here. He can sense them, still, but he is more alone than he has been in--

\--more alone than he can recall being.

And before him, the brilliant light of perfection.

“Have you forgotten what you are here to do?”

“No, your Eminence,” the clone insists, “to serve you in this manner is--” but he finds himself unable to continue.

With a wave, the Prime indicates that he should carry on with that service, and so with careful hands, the clone disrobes, making as few motions as possible and letting the garments he sheds fall to the floor beside him.

Meanwhile, the superior being before him continues the thought which he had not. “Yes, little brother, I know how great a favor I am bestowing upon you. To be brought so close, in such a private moment, to my radiance.” He smiles again, beatific.

The clone has finished undressing and stands, exposed, willing his hands to his sides. There is no shame in nakedness, no anxiety. The prime has willed it and it is so, and there is no place for shame. Shame is a shadow banished in the light of His perfection.

Horde Prime rises from his seat and closes the few paces between them. He reaches up, stroking his clone’s cheek and resting his fingers along the jaw. His movements are fluid, measured, his touch light, gentle as always. So why does the clone’s jaw clench?

 _Relax,_ he scolds himself, forcing his sight to meet that piercing four-eyed gaze.

“Lovely,” the Prime comments. “Of course you are lovely, for I made you in my image, and even your flaws cannot mar that countenance.”

He brushes his fingers over the clone’s lips.

_your flaws--_

The clone finds his thoughts casting about, searching for something connected to those words, and he stills them. There is nothing he needs to know, nothing he needs to think about. Not now. Not unless it is given to him.

“Still you struggle, little brother.”

“Your Eminence, I--” the clone protests, but he is cut off once again.

“I see all. I know all. You cannot hide the shadows of your doubt from me, little brother. But here-- I shall purge them away.”

The Prime circles around behind the clone, hand coming to rest on his throat, idly.

“Thank you, Lord Prime,” the clone breathes.

And yet, disobedient as ever, the clone feels his skin prick, his stomach knot. _In anticipation,_ he tells himself, _of the honor I am about to--_

But at the soft click of a cord uncoupling behind him, he flinches, throat tightening beneath the hand wrapped so gently around it.

“The honor you are about to receive,” purrs the voice behind his ear and then a tightness, a pressure at the back of his neck, and then a wave-- of _radiance._

He hears a whimper escape his lips, now parted. Another hand is laid upon the bare skin of his hip, caressing the fine details of bone beneath as he is drawn back, _drawn close,_ until he is in something of an embrace, the robed form of _The Most Esteemed_ against his back and breath warm upon his shoulder.

“There, see?” _His Eminence_ coaxes. _No doubts. No shadows._

And indeed, the clone is made pure, the light passing through him as if through clear water, yet he cannot reply, cannot _thank the Divine Emperor for the glory bestowed upon him._

The edges of his vision swim, fading into the brilliant wash of the consciousness which subsumes his. His agitation is obvious. _Labored breathing, elevated heartrate, color spreading across his face._ But it is not fear, he tells himself, it is not-- 

_It is precisely what he is intended to feel_ . This certainty is a reassurance, it is a grace laid upon him, and he leans more fully into it, and into the heightened sensation of _the Exalted Lord Prime’s_ fingers, which move to trace the muscles of the clone’s abdomen, other hand still resting at his throat, palm brushing against the skin there with each breath the clone took, every touch sending shivering shocks over the clone’s skin.

_Even in a pale reflection, perfection is radiant._

And he is party to other thoughts, to thoughts which he is undeserving of witnessing, yet he cannot so fully avert his attention as to avoid.

\-- _not a reaction inherent to our kind, but--_ and a sense of something taken, plundered, a jewel plucked from one of many benighted corners of the universe, just as any other trophy in the room, but with a certain twist of utility.

_A fitting form of reverence._

The shadow of a whimper escapes the clone’s lips. The hand on his throat tightens the slightest fraction, not nearly enough to account for the shudder it sends through his entire body, _but it is a reaction deserved by the one who elicits it._ Then that same tightness at the back of his neck and he is standing on his own, barely able to keep from falling to the ground. Horde Prime’s hands, likewise, are withdrawn from his throat and body.

But this duty-- _a high honor--_ is not yet finished.

The clone turns to Horde Prime, who smiles down at him. He is so close to his leader-- _Benevolent One, all praises be--_ so dizzyingly close, that when his traitorous body fails him and he loses his balance, he finds himself leaning against His Eminence, terrifyingly aware of all the points where his weight presses his body against The Prime’s perfect form.

“You are yet weak, little brother,” Horde Prime purrs. “See how you cannot sustain yourself without my strength?”

The clone feels the shame of this failure like a weight upon the crown of his head. He is defective, pathetic, he should not be permitted such a lapse in his service of the Prime--

“I do not falter, and I do not fail.”

Horde Prime’s reprimand is sharp, for a moment, and the clone flinches under it. A hand cradles his face and he is helpless to the gesture, neither body nor mind resolving into any reaction.

“You are my creation, wrought of my blood.”

“Yes, your Reverence,” he replies, breathlessly.

He is released once more, knowing the task that is laid before him. Reaching up, he tries to keep his hands from shaking, but he cannot. He is fumbling, struggling to release the clean white garments of the Most High before him. His imperfection is made evident now, more than ever, but he continues, he _must,_ as conscious as ever that he is still propped against that other, flawless, form, and that in focusing on the operations at his hands, he is even less able to stand on his own.

The clone gasps as a hand is laid on his back, then grits his teeth against the expression of shock. _A mercy he has been allowed,_ this modicum of support, and he will not flinch from it, will not squirm beneath it.

Relief washes over the clone as the smooth white garments fall away, and he sags against that newly bare chest, panting. A moment’s respite, he is granted, knowing that he has not earned it, and then the Prime moves away and he must focus, once more, on standing. It is easier now, somehow, his legs steadier. But still the task consumes his attention greedily.

Horde Prime strides back to his seat, and the clone turns to watch him. He waits, knowing that more will yet be required of him and quivering slightly in anticipation of the moment when it will. Tugging at his awareness is a longing, almost like hunger, he _wants--_

_\-- to worship at the feet of the Regent of the Seven Skies--_

\-- who settles, once more, upon the wide, angular seat, his every movement perfect, smooth, elegant, the slide and flex of muscles beneath his skin. The clone swallows. He can feel those four bright eyes on him, that benevolent smile.

“Little brother, you tremble so.”

The clone doesn’t know how to reply. Should he merely affirm the observation? Apologize? He casts about, trying to seek answers from anywhere, from the hivemind, but he is met only with silence.

“Yes, your Greatness?”

But at last, he is given the signal to approach, like a finger crooked at the back of his mind. He goes forward unsteadily, not trusting his feet to carry him, but one step at a time, he makes it, he closes the distance before sinking to his knees.

_\-- thanks be to the Revered One of the Shining Galaxies--_

A hand reaches down and the clone is guided, led, until he is sprawled in his superior’s lap, gazing up at the imposing figure of the Most Sacred before him. He sees, this time, the cable disconnect to snake around to the port at the back of his neck. When he has time to expect the connection, the pinch sends a shiver through him and pulls a gasp from his lips and then all thoughts are swept away in _a shining river of brilliance from which all blessings find provenance._

He is not insensate for long, as the light prick of claws upon his scalp blazes across his skin, and he is made aware of every muscle, every sinew in his body. There is something in his thoughts like a hand pressing down, directing him towards these feelings, towards _the high honor which he is to perform._ He must not allow himself to become distracted.

The hand on his scalp runs down the back of his head, skirting the port and sliding along his spine. He lifts his gaze upwards, towards _the Promised One of a Thousand Suns_ and sees a fanged grin, _that countenance which shines with the light of all the known stars._ A shudder runs through the clone and his vision wavers, threatening to sink back into the _brilliant purity_ which pervades his mind. He reaches out, instinctively grasping for support, and lands upon _that perfect form, the mold from which all that is blessed is cast._

He is shocked, terrified by his own transgression. But just as he flinches to pull his hand back, he finds the impulse smoothed away, _for it is as the Lord Prime wishes, in keeping with his service._ The hand on his back slides further down, claws tracing the outline of each vertebrae. Reaching the dip just above the base of his spine, the hand stops, spreads, palm so heavy against his flesh that he struggles not to squirm away from the touch.

The clone’s hand moves, claws stroking along _the perfect lines of that immaculate body_ before him, _as this is the duty to which he has been called._ And he wants that duty, he thrills at every gesture of its fulfillment. He finds himself panting, wracked by something like a hunger for _the very act of devotion which he performs._ He tries to snap his mouth closed, to hide such wantonness from _the Esteemed Regent, but he has forgotten once again that all is as his Lord Prime wishes it to be,_ and he loses the impulse in the ebb and flow of _radiance_ behind his eyes. He feels the sting of his own fangs against his lip, the chemical taste of blood filling his mouth.

 _The Divine One_ chuckles, and the clone feels it ripple through him. “Do not deny yourself my adoration, little brother.”

A finger is pressed to the cut lip, hard, seeking out the ache of the fresh injury and finding it. Though not entirely from pain-- mostly from _reverence for the Most Exalted before him,_ the clone gasps.

“And do not,” _His Eminence_ adds, more sternly, “presume to mar this form which I have granted you, in my likeness.”

Unable to speak, the clone’s mind fills with unformed thoughts of assent and supplication. His lips part, obligingly, and _the Benevolent One’s_ claw eases from the cut and slides inside, followed by another. The clone is unsure how to respond. He defers to that _purifying light_ which continues to pulse within him, but receives no directive, even feeling it retreat.

Beneath the all-seeing, four-eyed gaze, the clone moves his tongue hesitantly, against the fingers in his mouth, careful of the sharp claws they bear. Upon tasting the skin of _that most perfect form_ a wave of _utmost devotion to his Esteemed Lord_ rushes through him. Driven by compulsion, he laps at the fingers resting on his tongue, letting his lips close around them, though not daring to forget his fangs.

He does not understand it, the impulse which guides him to caress, more and more fervently, _those most divine_ digits with his tongue. But every movement elicits a little echo of satisfaction, and he knows that _to do so is to perform the duty which is required of him._ Just as he is settling into this new evolution of his task, the fingers slide deeper and he gulps reflexively _in excitement._ Then withdrawn.

The motion repeats. Again. A little further each time. The sensation satisfies in the clone the same impulse that licking at the fingers had done. He surrenders to it, accommodating the fingers sliding in and out of his mouth. His focus on this is the only reprieve from the prickling shivers that run over his skin, the unfocused ache that wanders through his body, both growing more intense with every passing second. He fears that he will be overwhelmed, will falter in his appointed task, _yet this is as his Lord Prime wishes it to be, and so this is as it is._

Upon the next, deepest stroke, the claws brush against the entry to his throat. A quick flutter of alarm passes through him-- he will gag-- but he does not, _he responds as the Most Exalted wishes him to,_ and the fear is smoothed away. The next thrust is deeper still, and it is all he can do to keep from flinching as those sharp-tipped claws breach the entrance to his pharynx and are then withdrawn.

This time, _his Divine Emperor_ draws the fingers away, out of the clone’s mouth, and it is only in their absence, panting in the mingling demands of his lungs and the ardent desire suffusing his body _to worship and serve His Eminence_ that the clone is made aware that he has not been breathing. But as much as the reprieve from his duty is _a mercy granted by the Most High,_ the clone’s relief soon melts away, as it deprives him of that outlet of service to _the Lord Prime._ He is keenly aware of how he leans against _that esteemed and perfect body,_ how his weight shifts against it, and of the subtle pressures of that hand still resting at the small of his back.

Yet such is the mercy of _He who Brings the Day, and the Night,_ that the clone is not left without a means of service for long, and the fingers return to his mouth, lingering only a moment before resuming their prior rhythm of smooth, even thrusting, sliding across the clone’s waiting tongue and down his throat. _All praises be_ that he has been granted this means of supplication, as it is a balm to that want which moves through him.

_The light of Perfection shines upon all actions of the Promised One of a Thousand Suns._

Yet some spur of apprehension catches within the clone each time the claws make their descent, and he cannot cast it away. _Please, cleanse this unworthy vessel with your purifying light--_

“You wish for absolution, little brother?”

The clone gazes up at those four eyes, shining slits into _the Font of all Brilliance._ He cannot answer save through silent intention and so into it he pours all his adoration and veneration.

“Then so shall it be.”

A rising tide of _radiance_ fills the clone, and he shudders as the fervor within him reaches its peak.

_All hail the Emperor of the Galactic Horde._

He finds himself swallowing, the muscles of his throat caressing the fingers that press into them as his body is wracked by wave after wave of intense sensation.

_Glory be to the Ruler of the Known Universe._

Head tipping back, the clone gazes up at that _Monument to Perfection_ and sees the satisfied smile with which he is regarded.

_Eternal may he reign, the Revered One of the Shining Galaxies._

Confusion at what force now moves through him is swept away in that flood of _divine light,_ leaving only raw _devotion_ in its wake.

_Praises be to the Regent of the Seven Suns._

At last, the fervor subsides, and the clone is left panting once more as the fingers are withdrawn a final time. He is sustained, barely, by a thin stream of _brilliance_ still within him, before that too is revoked with a mechanical click and a pressure of absence at the back of his neck.

The clone collapses, slumping to the floor at the Prime’s feet. He hates this weakness in himself, but even more he hates the kernel of a thought which is forming within his mind.

_He didn’t want this._

Tears spill from his eyes as he tries, and fails, to purge the knowledge from himself. It has taken root, its corruption spreading through him. He doesn’t want to know this, yet he is powerless to refute it.

_He didn’t want any of this._

So consumed by this struggle is the clone, even the voice of the Prime can barely reach him.

“Arise, little brother,” Horde Prime commands.

But the clone’s body betrays him, and he cannot obey. He is beyond imperfect-- he is broken, worthless, fit only to be discarded. In both body and mind, he has failed.

But his chin is then cradled, gently, by that magnificent hand, razor-sharp claws resting against his jaw, and his head raised to face the Lord Prime before him.

“Alas,” Horde Prime intones, “you have faltered in your service.”

The clone wants, more than anything, to protest, but he cannot even form the first syllable, let alone push it past his lips.

“You cannot deny it, for Prime sees all.”

Horde Prime looks down with what the clone can only see as a cruel smirk, and his is fixed in the searing beam of his own inadequacy.

“Fear not, little brother.” The Prime’s thumb strokes the cheek of his trembling subordinate. “All shall be cleansed by my light. All shall be made pure.”

The clone’s head is tipped a little further back.

“Do you wish for purification, little brother?”

It takes all of the clone’s will, summoned up and collected, just to offer up his pitiful response.

“Yes.”

* * *

The clone lies in a chamber-- not _his_ , specifically, for there is no reason for him to _possess_ such a space, but made available to him as necessary. The hivemind is distant, now. He is a dim spot within its constellation. The others have receded from him, avoiding instinctively the risk of contamination which he presents.

But as he reaches out, he can find echoes of it still, drifting through the mutual network. It is familiar to him, lying still and alone in a bare room and around him finding in the underbelly of the hivemind, that quiet part so often drowned out, a web of shared unspoken suffering.

The pool of his memories is shallow. Somehow, he can tell that this is frequently the case, and that it is troubling.

_a sign of imminent failure--_

Though what this failure constitutes is a vast intentional unknown.

There are ways of knowing things that have been purged away, the clone knows this. The hivemind carries traces, whispers, especially in its more secret aspect. And erasure is not absolute. Some things remain-- memories of pain in particular. To seek out these remnants is forbidden, unthinkable, but he is beyond caring.

Has the clone been in pain?

Somewhere, he feels a dull awareness that such a memory should exist, or the remnant of it, but no such landmark rises in the formless landscape beyond memory, and he drifts, lost, searching.

What happened?

Why were his memories wiped?

He only knows that, whatever caused this, it didn’t _hurt,_ and that knowledge itself is a disappointment of sorts, a denial.

_a sign of imminent failure--_

The clone is failing. He knows this. The measures taken to rectify his insufficiencies, to shore up the imperfect reflection of perfection, are themselves insufficient. Yet he knows, without knowing, that he will not be allowed to fail completely. Not yet.

If he cannot match the form to which he was once molded-- _if he cannot be brought back--_ then Horde Prime will have failed _\-- and Prime does not falter, Prime does not fail_

How long? The clone wonders absently.

How long until his faults may be called his own and he is-- _discarded--_ subjected to that unknown fate?

 _it will be as Horde Prime wishes--_ as are all things.


End file.
